


Your Breath, I'll catch it in the cold

by silverraininlondon (adventuresstrangeandrare)



Category: Hannibal (TV), Hannilock, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, Well - Freeform, okay, you'll hate it, you'll love it
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-07-29
Updated: 2013-08-18
Packaged: 2017-12-21 18:52:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,284
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/903671
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/adventuresstrangeandrare/pseuds/silverraininlondon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The great consulting detective Sherlock Holmes finds himself faced with a new enemy, one unlike any he's seen before, with methods so repelling. Will he follow the light deep down in the maze for the sake of being right?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The cold of the morgue

As he entered the morgue the usual cold embraced him.

Molly was there, her well-known face greeted him. But this time she didn’t welcome him with a shy smile; her face was cold and unmoved.  
There was another pathologist standing at her side. His face gave witness of the troubled days of work; His eyes were reddened and tired, his cheeks a little sunken and unshaved. A cloud of grief followed him. “I… I am sorry, Mr. Holmes, so sorry.” His voice trembled.

Sherlock didn’t answer, his eyes were fixed upon Molly’s but all affection for him was gone. The young pathologist’s gaze flickered between the two and then sank to rest upon his shoes. “I’ll leave you alone and give you … two… some time.” He said as he slowly approached the door.  
Before he left he took a deep breath and dared to look in Sherlock’s face, there was no emotion, not a twitching of an eye lid, not a trembling of his lips, just a cold expression, solid and perfect as marble. And it was as lasting as stone.

A little warmth entered the room as the pathologist left. But as soon as the door closed again, it was completely overtaken by the cold temperature of the morgue.  
 The lone man swiftly approached the cold silver table on which the still, cold body was lying. He looked down in this well-known face, this face that used to smile as soon as he entered the room, the cheeks that used to blush as soon as he started talking, the eyes that used to shine when they found his.  
And now they lay cold and empty staring at the ceiling above. It was no typical reaction of Sherlock Holmes; it was in fact completely irrational. He kept staring at her, hoping for a movement, hoping for the warmth of her pulse to come back, yearning for her voice to fill his ears again.

But somewhere in the centre of the storm inside his head there was the steady and solid fact that Molly Hooper, his Molly Hooper was once and for all gone.

A single tear was able to break through his perfect poker face. It fell on her cheek.

And as he saw that not even this could cast a reaction in her, he allowed himself to give up.  
His head fell on his chest, his hands folded on his back, his features failed to keep the poker face up. No more tears, no sobbing. He grieved silently.

With a swift turn he kicked the nearest object that couldn’t fall over; in his case it was a sink to clean the instruments after the autopsy.  
He paced up and down the morgue and tried to catch his breath that out of a sudden trembled.

After a few minutes of complete agitation he simply walked out the door, with a last painful glance on the woman that used to be a constant and fixed point in his life. 

 

He couldn’t bear another second in this room.

 

* * *


	2. The Angel in the Mortuarty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Molly Hooper wasn't supposed to die, she was an angel after all, and angels cannot die.

"So he left?" Greg sighed. Of course he left.  
He tried to wipe off the fatigue and stress of the past days off his face but as he lowered his hand again he still felt flat and powerless. It was already bad enough but now, without _him_ , how should they ever get any further with this case?

"He wanted to take a look at the body and ... you know, they knew each other and ... he is _the_  Sherlock Holmes after all... I thought he was here because you sent him or something." The voice of the substitude pathologist drifted off as he tried to justify the situation. He couldn't stand Lestrade's gaze and once again started to find enormous intrest in his shoes. 

Greg sighed again with arms akimbo and his face turned away. God, he felt so grinded and he really didn't want to let it out on this youngster who had the unfortune to replace Molly Hooper. "Yeah, I know that he was here, he told me. And he told me to come. So why, God, why did he leave?" 

 

When Donovan stormed in his office this morning to announce that they've found a body on the roof of St. Barth's no one even thought that it would be the little angel from the morgue. That's what they were calling Molly in NSY, the little angel from the morgue, always nice, always smiling. Even though her smile became sadder and sadder she kept it up. She was of that kind that doesn't want to bother others with problems and worries so they stay silent and just smile. 

They didn't know who was up on the rooftop until they arrived. The forensics were already there, securing the crime scene. Anderson was waiting for them to accompany them up, to prepare them. Well... he didn't actually. He couldn't find his voice. No one of them actually knew her that well but it took them all off guard. He just stared at Lestrade with a hollow expression and took them upstairs. When Greg pushed the door to the roof open he already gasped even though he couldn't make out who was lying there. 

A great red pool of blood spread around the body, no ordinary blood loss but consciously painted the way it was. It started from the shoulders and neck and strechted out to gigantic red wings. Her ginger hair was spread to a halo around her head and she was naked. But that wasn't all; she was decapitated and her head perfectly aligned to her neck. 

 

"Okay, No, listen, just show us the body and tell what you could make of it. You did the autopsy?" Greg stared the substitude down again. He mumbled a 'Yes' and showed Lestrade and Donovan into the mortuarty where she waited for them on the silver slab staring at the ceiling.   
Donovan made a gulping sound and tensed but she kept looking. The three of them gathered around the table with the substitude and Lestrade on one side and Sally on the other. The medic started with the obvious wound on the neck and gestured over it. Greg kept nodding. She was beheaded, a clean and relatively unpainful death as he had heard. No weapon identified yet, then the pathologist went on to her feet or rather to her ankles. There were purpleish blue marks around them. " Probably the killer tied her up and left her to exsanguinate. This way he or she collected the blood to paint ... the wings." Donovan turned alarmingly pale but she kept looking, she always did, Greg thought.   
"Before draining all the blood, the killer caused this wound" he lifted the piece of white cloth that covered her body, under her left breast was a wide cute, again with blueish markings on the edges." The discolouring was caused by a rib spreader, it pressed against her skin and caused internal bleeding."   
He was absolutely sure that he didn't want the answer but he had to ask nontheless. " For what did the killer spread her ribs like that? " Greg asked.   
" To remove the heart. It was cut out clean, the killer definetily has medical experience. The ribs were massively damaged but I guess he didn't care that much at this point. " The substitude went on about missing hearts and decapitation but that was basically it. Except from these wounds Molly Hooper was absolutely flawless, no bruises no scratches, no marks of fighting. Her hair was brushed to achieve the perfect circle around her head.   
The killer was an artist. 

Great, Greg thought, the artistic ones are the worst. They are clever and far worse, they have imagination. 


End file.
